The Battlefable Chronicles 5: The Nemesis Crown
by Brother Andyn
Summary: A storm is brewing in the Old World, for the ancient evil that is the Nemesis Crown has just been unearthed...
1. Legacy of Drakes

THE NEMESIS CROWNHIGH ELVES VS CHAOS HORDES

LEGACY OF DRAKES

The High Elves of Tor Karandell have recently arrived in the Old World, drawn by the brewing conflicts surrounding the Nemesis Crown. Prince Elreth, eager to take advantage of the Empire's distraction, has marched inland towards the Draken Downs. Here, deep in an ancient dragon cave is rumoured to be a clutch of monstrous eggs, waiting for the life-giving heat that will hatch their contents. If this should occur, the Great Forest would once more be haunted by the most vicious and dangerous of all predators, beginning a new age of Dragons.

SCENARIO STATISTICS

**Points:**

2000

**Participants:**

High Elves

(Pat Quinnell)

Chaos Hordes

(Stuart Nichols)

**Scenario:**

Pitched Battle

**Location:**

The Draken Downs, Ancient Dragon's Cave

**Timeline: **2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

**High Elves:**

Warhost of Tor Karandell

**General:**

Prince Elreth

**Chaos Hordes:**

The Brotherhood of the Silver Falcon

**General:**

Garathor

THE STORY SO FAR…

The elven warhost of Tor Karandell has crossed the Great Ocean, drawn by the growing storm of war in the Old World. Rumours have spread like wildfire of the ancient dwarven artefact, the Nemesis Crown. Whoever claims the creation of Alaric the Mad will be powerful indeed, although the wearer may lose their very soul in the process. For the crown draws out every shred of evil, transforming the wearer into the vilest of monsters. Taking advantage of the greedy humans, orcs and others searching for the tainted relic, Prince Elreth has decided that there would be no greater chance to investigate the ancient dragon cave in the Draken Downs region. If they can find the last dragon eggs, and revitalise them, the High Elves would have a new batch of Dragons to aid them. However, a great evil has descended from the northern Middle Mountains, one that has been plotting conquest ever since the failure of the Storm of Chaos. This evil, this servant of Tzeentch, has a name. Garathor…

TURN 1

The skies turned dark with massive thunderheads as the High Elf army approached the rocky mountain beneath which lay the ancient caves. The cave mouth yawned, a vast black maw in the hillside. Prince Elreth frowned. Within the hour the weather had transformed from reasonably warm with a light breeze to all-encompassing grey cloud cover with the imminent threat of heavy rain, possibly thunder. Something was amiss. He could feel it. There was a deep rumble as his draconic mount, Lightwing, seemed to echo his thoughts.

The ground shook as the dragon strode imperiously forwards, the elaborate harness creaking upon his back. The infantry and Silver Helm cavalry parted before his might, making way for the most majestic of creatures. It was Lightwing's kind that the elves had come to seek in the earth, the resting place of his long-gone brethren. As Elreth narrowed his eyes, scanning the cave mouth, something emerged over the top of the mountain. A shadowy figure, with vast, leathery wings, raised its shining sword to the heavens. Immediately a bestial howl tore itself from the creature's throat. The horses panicked, forcing the Silver Helms to apply a touch of the spurs. At the daemon's call, a host of warriors climbed up from beyond the ridge to stand by their master. Commander Cerandar turned to look up at his general.

'My prince, this is not good. The beast is clearly a daemon! What are your orders?'

Lightwing raised his head and roared. His serpentine tail lashed from side to side, his wings unfurled and he prepared to take off. Elreth knew he could not restrain his mount. The dragon's hatred for Chaos knew no bounds: dragons were its ancient enemies.

'They could be here to take the eggs for themselves. If we descend into the caves first they could block our way out. We have little choice but to destroy them. Prepare to engage the enemy!'

As the vast host of armoured warriors descended the mountainside, Elreth and his dragon took to the skies. He could see the extent of the enemy army: amongst the warriors were bestial trolls, heavy chariots and deadly knights. But most terrifying of all was the daemon, and his minions. Like manta rays they swept through the air as if it were water, accompanied by a flock of harpy-like she-daemons. The furies were heading for a gnarled tree, no doubt seeking protection from the elven missile fire that had begun to fall amongst the ranks of the foe. Issuing a warcry, he turned Lightwing's head to intercept them.

The disciplined ranks of the elves marched across the plain to engage their hated enemies. The High Elves had a long-standing grudge against the forces of chaos. Now would simply be another chance to take bloody vengeance.

Garathor, loyal servant of the God of Sorcery, opened his arms wide as the heavens split and a bolt of lightning crashed down before him. Bathing in the power of the gods, he gathered it in, feeling the warmth and tingling energy as it rushed through his daemonic veins. Folding his arms and then opening them again, he unleashed the green fire upon the advancing spearelves. A bolt of emerald power engulfed them. In an instant they broke formation and began to battle amongst themselves. The daemon prince laughed as the clash of ithilmar split the air until two soldiers fell to their fellows. It was first blood for Chaos. Garathor smiled, and gave thanks to his god. Today was going to be a good day for bloodshed. Taking the power into him again, his gleaming eyes flashed red and a ball of crimson fire flew towards the enemy war machines. One of the bolt throwers went up in flames, its crew incinerated amidst the dancing tongues of Tzeentch's touch. As if that wasn't enough, he closed his eyes and sent a command jolting into one of his standards. A thunderbolt zipped from the banner of wrath. It slammed into another regiment of spearelves, felling one of them as electricity surged through him. Yes, Garathor thought, bellowing his praise of Tzeentch.

'Fire!' Five red-fletched bolts from the surviving Eagle's Claw were hurled at a chariot. The bolts clattered harmlessly against the dark metal, leaving the engine of death unscathed. The archers followed suit and unleashed their steel-fanged missiles. Fortunately, they had better luck and one of the screamers went down, its wings pierced by a dozen arrows. There was a chilling, unearthly cry as the daemon vanished in a spray of bluish ichor.

TURN 2

In response to this banishment the flying manta daemons undulated into the elven cavalry. The furies supported them. In a ripple of slicing blades, slashing talons, flapping wings and hellish shrieks, four proud elves were knocked from their saddles. The horses, spooked immensely by the unnatural entities forced the silver helms to retreat. As the panicking steeds fled, taking their dismayed riders with them, both screamers and furies gave chase.

The first chaos chariot rumbled across the field as the other smashed into the spearelves. With scythed wheels flashing and armoured riders bellowing their battle cries they cut down two of the elves with impunity. But the stalwart elves were not to be broken. Their hatred of chaos shone in their eyes as their foot-long spear blades stabbed back at their attackers, felling one of the crew with a simple thrust. With the death of the driver, the chariot churned its way around and retreated, followed by the victorious elves.

Garathor watched as the rest of his army advanced. Summoning up his power, he gritted his teeth as too much power coursed through him. Unleashing a howl of agony, he cursed the elves and the fickle winds. Still, the banner of wrath flickered out, slaying another elf.

'We go through the woods. This way we can outmanoeuvre them,' the elf captain shouted to his soldiers over the rumble of thunder as the storm truly began. The first drops of rain tinkled against their armour as they guided their elven steeds through the trees.

Prince Elreth and Lightwing soared through the darkening skies. The battle was unfolding below them. He could see that one unit of silver helms had fled, but the rest of the army was advancing resolutely. He had lost one of the Eagle's Claws, but his archers held firm and had been doing well. They were talented troops, his archers.

'Fire!' Came the cry as the remaining Eagle's Claw unleashed its volley of bolts. Again the projectiles clattered uselessly, deflected this time from the sneering Chaos Knights. But their glee was short lived as a dark cloud of arrows descended upon them. No less than four of the mightily armoured warriors fell from their saddles, their breastplates and gorgets pierced by the elven sky-fangs.

TURN 3

'Kill the weaklings!' The first chariot's warrior bellowed as the chaos steeds thundered into the spearelves. Three elves were sliced down by the furious assault and the chariot in return was damaged. Locked in battle, the two sides hacked and slashed murderously as they each tried to turn the tide of battle in their favour.

Alongside the chariot the brutish trolls, huge hulks of muscle, crashed into their foes, hacking left and right with their primitive weapons. It was bloody. Six elves were slain, their corpses thrown through the air. It was too much for the elves and they turned to flee, pursued through the boggy ground by the mutated beasts of Chaos.

The Chaos Warriors also charged into battle, the arcane runes glinting on their armour and faint blue light emanating from inhuman visors. Their axes and swords cut down two spears for a loss of only one of their own but the elves stood firm, determined not to retreat.

At the same time the furies screeched their own war cries and descended on the bolt thrower. It was completely one-sided as the winged daemons slashed their talons into the mostly unarmoured elves who didn't stand a chance. Within minutes the machine was left without a crew.

Howling their alien cries, the screamers surged into the archers. Two elves fell, their torsos cleaved by daemonic spikes and they couldn't hurt their hellish foes. But they also stood firm, their resolve unwavering in the face of such utter evil.

Garathor, enraged and filled with the power of his god, roared his anger and stretched his wings. With a burst of blue sparks he charged up through the rain-lashed skies towards the dragon rider. The beast and its rider would prove a worthy target of his fell blade.

Elreth pulled the dragon's reins back as he tried to calm his mount. This battle would be fought best cool-headed and intelligently, not with hot-blooded rage. As the blue-skinned daemon prince rushed towards them, its vast bat-wings spreading out to intimidate his foe, he tightened his jaw and unsheathed his sword. This would be a duel to remember.

'Die, you puny mortal!' Garathor roared as he closed with his opponent.

'Not before you, beast of chaos!'

The two generals smashed into one another with an explosion of azure sparks. There was an almighty crash as flaming, daemonic blade met elf-forged steel. High above the battlefield, surrounded by flashing lightning and the drenching rain as its bucketed down, they duelled like fighting sky gods. Elreth was fast, but Garathor was faster. Their blades clashed, the daemon prince and the dragon twisting around each other and dodging blows as they slashed and ripped with deadly claws. Roars both elven and bestial tore through the air accompanied by the ear-numbing voices of their weapons. Sparks both blue and gold danced like fireflies.

On the ground the elves locked in battle ignored their leader, too busy fighting for their lives against the horrors of Chaos. Only Cerandar, Commander of the army, was unengaged. Squinting up against the illuminated sky, he watched as his friend and superior clashed with the unholy evil that was Garathor. Sending up a prayer to Khaine, he hoped that the daemon prince would be banished. Only then could they descend into the ancient dragon's cave safely.

And then the daemonic sword struck Elreth across the breastplate. The blow rang loudly, and the daemon prince wrenched the elf prince from the saddle. The daemon and the dragon disappeared rapidly above him as he plummeted. He gritted his teeth in pain, blood dripping from his wound. The elf prince fell freely towards the ground, hundreds of feet below and he thought about his possible end. If this is how it ended, then so be it, he mused bitterly. At least he had gone down fighting the vile daemon Garathor.

Lightwing bellowed in rage and slashed out at the laughing daemon. Against a backdrop of thunderbolts and rainstorm they wrestled in the air, like titans at the end of the world. Finally the dragon managed to open a gash in Garathor's side. Bright droplets of ichor spilled from the hideous wound, but before the daemon prince could retaliate, Lightwing swept away, following the path of his fallen master.

Just when he thought he'd hit the ground and become nothing more than a crimson smear on the earth, Elreth felt a gigantic force rise beneath him. So, the dragon had returned for him. He should've known; a dragon's loyalty was immense. Lightwing wasted no time in bearing the wounded prince away into the storm, even as the daemon Garathor streaked down through the slate-grey skies, searching for his prey.

'This is for Prince Elreth!' Cerandar yelled as he charged headlong into the screamers. He could see the archers could use his blade, and having witnessed the fall of his lord he had much hatred to repay the vile minions of chaos. He snarled as he whirled his greatsword over his head in a vicious arc. The sword slashed downwards, slicing straight through one of the nightmarish beasts. Ichor vomited from the severed head, staining the ground with yellowish liquid. Within seconds the screamer vanished, a shrill cry echoing on the winds. The archers, their morale boosted by their leader's efforts, swamped the daemons on all sides, hoping to cut off any retreat. The only way out for the screamers would be death.

'Hold your ground! The trolls must die!' With a rallying call the spearelves formed up in front of the lumbering trolls. Elsewhere the second unit of Silver Helms continued flanking, galloping through the loamy woodlands, their captain urging them onwards.

The battle was in full rage now. Three armoured warriors went down, a good exchange for the single spearelf killed in return. The regiments were locked in an exhaustive contest, neither willing to back down. As the ring of steel sounded alongside the death cries of the slain, elven spears hamstrung a chaos steed but the forces of chaos would not break that easily.

TURN 4

Having outrun the pursuing spearelves, the unengaged chaos chariot turned to face the emerging Silver Helms.

'Die, draconian filth,' the Chaos Knight leader growled as Garathor wrestled the dragon to the ground, the earth shaking slightly under the weight of the monstrous beings in combat. The last of the knights rushed into the battle and began hacking at their foe's scaly hide. Sparks flew as their weapons were deflected, Lightwing's skin too tough for them to penetrate. Garathor snarled his hatred, striking a blow across the dragon's head. Lightwing was thrown to the ground. Before he could rise the daemon prince was upon him, striking out with his blue-fire sword. Opening great wounds in the beast's hide, he roared his praises to the god of sorcery as blood pumped from Lightwing's body. With a savage roar, the dragon threw Garathor aside. Flapping his wings weakly, he battered the knights from his path and fled, a trail of blood staining the ground behind him.

The battle continued to rage between the spearelves and their chaos warrior foes. Neither side would give in as the fighting became tense.

In the tightly packed combat with the chariot there was little room for swordplay and elves died as hooves crushed bodies and wicked blades hacked and slashed. But the ranks of spears pushing forwards finally forced the chariot to retreat. As the chaos horses wrenched the machine away, the driver lashing out with his whip in an effort to control the beasts, the spearelves gave chase, fanning outwards.

'Engage. Charge!' The silver helm captain lowered his sword to point forwards at the second chariot. The knights burst from the treeline and thundered into the chaos machine. But their lances scraped off the chariot body, knocking off grisly trophies but leaving the warrior unharmed. Bellowing in rage, he raised his halberd and hacked down one of the silver helms with a spray of blood and another combat ensued.

The spearelves rushed into battle with the monstrous trolls, spears stabbing and slicing. The beasts were wounded, but some of their injuries healed over almost immediately, closing up seconds after they'd been cleaved. Huge clubs swept through the elven ranks, and four warriors were killed, their breastplates crushed by the powerful blows. Again the elves were dismayed by this show of strength and retreated in good order.

TURN 5

The Chaos Knights wheeled around to face the enemy army. Garathor raised his head to the skies, laughing insanely as the power of Tzeentch flooded into him. He had defeated his foe, vanquished the enemy general and he was favoured by his god. Nothing would stop him from conquering this puny empire and doing what the weak fool Archaon could not! Opening his wings, he flew up into the rain, bathing in the blasts of white lightning and torrents of water.

The leadership of the Chaos forces was not to be underestimated. Chariot one pulled about, ceasing their retreat. The trolls bellowed and stopped their useless pursuit of the running elves. But as the daemon prince stretched out his clawed fist and cast the green fires upon the archers, a strange force intervened. With a bright flash the magic was dissipated.

'What?'

Still the battle raged as silver helms and chariot rider struck out at one another. It was fruitless combat, nothing but harsh war cries and the clamour of clashing weapons, the ground turned to mud beneath churning hooves. Likewise the spears against the warriors smashed each other, slaying again and again but neither side willing to give up the fight.

'For Ulthuan, destroy them!' The spearelves who had driven away the chariot rushed into their fellow spearelves' adversaries, the deadly chaos warriors, joining the battle. With increased elves they might be able to turn the tide in the High Elves favour.

'You will die, in the name of Khaine, god of war!' The silver helm captain twirled his sword and struck out at the chariot rider. The chaos warrior's head leapt from his shoulders with gout of blood. With the death of its last warrior, the chaos steeds were butchered and trampled. Finally the chariot was destroyed in a wave of hacking and chopping.

Cerandar scythed his greatsword into the furies, cutting one down in a slop of ichor. Another died as he reversed the blow, taking off its head. Alongside him the archers hacked down another two daemons, their courage rising with their commander's bravery.

'I'm done…with nightmares,' the commander snarled. With a cloud of bluish sparks, he slashed through the last fury's torso, sending it back to the Realm of Chaos.

TURN 6

The Tzeentchian Knights and the last chariot rumbled into the silver helms, carving a bloody path through their enemies. Three elven knights fell beneath their vengeful blades. A single chaos knight was thrown from his saddle. The battle became fierce: all knew the end was near. The elven prince had been taken out of action, yet the elves continued to fight on defiantly. At last, the warriors were wiped out; the final warrior surrounded and cut down by bloody spears.

'And now, you die!' Garathor, witnessing the destruction of his daemonic minions, charged brutally into the archers. Three elves were sliced down by the arc of the prince's sword. He strode among them, hacking out viciously in all directions. The elves would pay for their insolence. Silently, Cerandar came up behind the daemon prince. Now was his moment of vengeance. As the archers stabbed upwards with their swords, wounding the bleeding Garathor, he raised his greatsword and prepared to strike.

'Sinners need no mercy…or sympathy. Time to die, you cur!' The double-handed sword came around and struck deep into the daemon's hide. A fountain of ichor burst from Garathor's body, and he howled in agony as the runes on the blade began to glow. As the daemon prince began to crumble, his material form decaying, the archers stepped up their attacks, slashing and hewing at the fallen enemy general. A chilling death cry issued from Garathor's throat as he finally faded away in an explosion of azure fires.

NEITHER ELF NOR DAEMON CLAIMS THE LEGACY OF DRAKES

Commander Cerandar ordered the tactical withdrawal. As the High Elf army of Tor Karandell retreated, the remaining warriors of the Brotherhood also departed. Their general had been banished and it would be some time before he fought his way back to the mortal realm. Neither side really gained victory; neither had enough troops left to establish a proper base around the dragon cave. The eggs would remain in the clutches of their long-dead parent, undisturbed, for now…

http://nemesis.au. 


	2. The Clutch of Evil

THE NEMESIS CROWNCHAOS HORDES VS HIGH ELVES

THE CLUTCH OF EVIL

The forces of Garathor, in his absence, have regrouped and prepared to wipe out the scattered remnants of the Tor Karandell High Elves. Unsurprisingly, Commander Cerandar has guessed at the Chaos warriors' plans and has committed the Warhost to stage a last ditch attempt to stop the dragon eggs falling into the wrong hands. And at stake is the ultimate goal…

SCENARIO STATISTICS

**Points:**

1000

**Participants:**

High Elves

(Pat Quinnell)

Chaos Hordes

(Stuart Nichols)

**Scenario:**

Pitched Battle

**Location:**

The Draken Downs, Ancient Dragon's Cave

**Timeline: **2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

**High Elves:**

Warhost of Tor Karandell

**General:**

Commander Cerandar

**Chaos Hordes:**

The Brotherhood of the Silver Falcon

**General:**

Navaak Redaxe

THE STORY SO FAR…

With the last battle severely depleting both sides, the daemon prince Garathor must fight his way back to the mortal realm. Prince Elreth, too, must fight the cold claws of death. While he recovers, Navaak Redaxe leads the Brotherhood on the offensive, trying to eradicate the last High Elves and claim the Ancient Dragon's Cave as Brotherhood territory. However, the High Elves are not about to give in and so Commander Cerandar rallies his warriors. They must stop the forces of evil this time or the dragon eggs will belong to Chaos. If the Brotherhood claim the eggs and revitalise them, the Empire will be in serious jeopardy. With Chaos Dragons on the loose, the fate of the Old World could well hang in the balance…

TURN 1

Cerandar gritted his teeth against the cold wind. The sky overhead was grey, and frost clung to the ground. It was a terrible time for battle. He would rather be elsewhere, back in Ulthuan with the elf maidens or even in some human tavern, in front of a roaring fire with a glass of mulled wine. Practically anything was preferable to fighting a battle in these hellish conditions. Winter, he thought, the most hated and loathsome season of all.

He took hold of his amulet and felt the warmth of its power flowing through him. He could feel its fire as he watched the knights and warriors of the enemy marching across the field in front of the cave entrance. Hopefully they would be taught a proper lesson today. The trolls were there too, huge lumbering monsters with blackish hides, scaly fins and other deformities. Hideous creatures, he thought. It was well known that fire negated their regenerative abilities; they would make an excellent target for the amulet's magic.

The sorcerer was raising his staff threateningly. This is it, Cerandar thought, mentally shielding his mind against the evil energy coalescing about the man. Green fire burst amongst the spearelves, and instantly the commander had a feeling of dread. This is what happened in the opening sequence of the last battle. As if to mock him, the spearelves once again began fighting amongst themselves to the sinister laughter of the sorcerer. The winds of magic were blowing strongly, and although Cerandar tried to dissipate his foe's magic it was impossible. He cursed the gods as two of his soldiers fell to the blades of their fellows. Once again it was first blood for Chaos. This did not bode well for the High Elves.

Navaak roared with laughter. Green lightning flickered from the end of his staff as he raised it the heavens. This was a good start, he knew, Garathor would be pleased with him. The sorcerer narrowed his eyes as the silver helms galloped towards the chaos lines. They were filled with anger; he could feel their hatred coursing through them. The spearelves too, did not cease their advance. But he was confident; he had been blessed with this early victory.

But his laughter ceased abruptly. The High Elf commander was stretching out his hand towards the trolls he was leading. The winds of magic were howling and he was hard pressed to counter the enemy magic. He concentrated, summoning up his reserves of energy. But it was difficult, insanely difficult. Desperately he tried to dispel the High Magic and failed. With an explosion of flame the beasts caught fire, and he ducked involuntarily as magical flames roared across their warty hides.

Then the whistling bolts came arching through the air towards the knights. The bolts clattered harmlessly off the horsemen's armour. This was followed by a volley of arrows from the archers on the hill. Again the knights' chaos armour saved them.

TURN 2

Navaak directed his warriors and knights to keep advancing. Soon the elves would be engaged and destroyed. Then the dragon's cave would be theirs, with no one to stop them plundering its treasures. Feeling the power surging all around him, he thanked the chaos gods for today's awesome winds. They swirled and eddied about the battlefield like a tornado of energy. Gathering enough power to him, he twisted it into the spell he wanted to cast. Blue fire materialised in his gauntlet and he grinned. With this much power at his disposal, nothing could stop him devastating the enemy. He unleashed it upon the spearelves. The bolt of blue flames engulfed the elves in a titanic eruption of irresistible force. Navaak watched the commander trying to dispel his magic, but it was fruitless. The flames of Tzeentch burned, dancing in a huge conflagration of fiery destruction. Screams tore through the atmosphere as the horrific spell went to work.

When the flames died down, Navaak marvelled at the damage the Blue Fire had done. No less than nine elven warriors had been incinerated, their steaming corpses littering the field. Their fellows were retreating. With a sneer, he motioned and the flames burning quietly upon his trolls faded away. Yes, he mused, the winds of magic were strong today.

'Regroup!' Came the call to rally. The blue spell had been devastating, but the High Elves would still stand strong. The enemy could still be overcome. As the silver helms thundered into the chaos knights, Cerandar closed his eyes and let his mind reach out to the winds. So far they had been blowing strongly, and perhaps he could exact a measure of vengeance upon the enemy for the deaths caused. Gathering as much power as he could, he released it towards the trolls where the sorcerer was positioned. The Flames of the Phoenix billowed once again, igniting the slimy hides of the beasts. He could feel their pain, their anguish. And yet the evil sorcerer remained unscathed, safe beneath his all-enclosing chaos armour.

'Fire!' A cloud of arrows descended on the trolls. Finally, Cerandar thought as one of the monsters keeled over, pin cushioned, never to rise again. But it was a small respite compared to the deaths of so many soldiers all ready lost to the vile sorcery of Tzeentch.

The High Elves' lances were simply deflected by the chaos knights' near impenetrable armour. Blades snapped and horses panicked as the dark horsemen brushed aside the attacks with impunity. In response they hacked down two of the silver helms. Three more steeds were smashed to the ground by the chaos horses, trampled while the unfortunate riders struggled to escape. But there was no way out of the slaughter. Waving their axes and swords, the chaos knights drove the remaining silver helms off, leaving a path of death.

TURN 3

'Destroy them!' Navaak yelled to his trolls as the beasts rumbled toward the spearelves. But the fleet-footed elves turned and ran, desperately evading the monstrous mutants. 'Cowards,' the sorcerer snarled. Uttering words of power, he tried to dispel the dancing flames as they wreaked havoc on his beasts but the winds were fanning the flames.

'Very well, elf, this time you will die.' Opening his mind up again, he dragged power from the shouting winds into himself. If he could not dispel the flames, he would take vengeance on their caster. His soul soared as he felt the power rushing into him, like a drug. It was so smooth, so malleable, and so rich. There was so much available, he knew nothing could stop this spell. Collecting it up, he repeated the arcane words to the spell and his eyes flashed with blue light. In an instant he fired the azure bolt towards the elf commander. 'Take this, Asur!'

Cerandar gripped his amulet tightly as the dire magic overwhelmed his senses. Pain flared in every part of his body, and blueness charged agonisingly through him. He tried to dispel it, fling it from him but he knew he was feeble compared to this veteran of sorcery. He was a fighter at heart, not a mage. Giving a tortured cry, he dropped his sword and grasped his head. Seconds later he fell to the ground and darkness swirled through his mind.

As the warriors tirelessly continued to advance, the knights wheeled their formation to ignore the fleeing silver helms. Their next target was the regiment of archers, who had caused so much damage in the previous battle. This time the tide would turn for Chaos.

As the silver helms continued to retreat, ignorant of their commander's plight, the spearelves mirrored their actions and fled into the woods.

A single knight was pitched from his steed as the arrow bit deep into his gorget. But the knights were unperturbed by the loss. So close to victory now, they continued their advance, even as more bolts rained down harmlessly around them.

TURN 4

'And now its time for you to die!' The chaos knight leader growled as the knights thundered into their hated foes, the archers. It was a massacre. The archers, mostly unarmoured, were killed easily as the heavily armoured knights cut and hewed about them. Not a single knight fell and the elves quickly broke formation and fled. But this time their fleet-footedness would not prevail. Evil laughter rang from the knights' helms as their monstrous steeds trampled the archers into the earth.

Navaak watched the proceedings as blue fires flickered at the top of his staff. He grinned nastily. The day belonged to Chaos, and the Brotherhood of the Silver Falcon would be able to descend to the caves. Bathed in the multi-coloured fires of Tzeentch, the eggs would not only be revitalised, they'd be changed, terribly. It would be interesting, the sorcerer mused, thinking what to tell Garathor when the daemon prince returned.

A MONSTROUS PROSPECT DAWNS FOR THE EMPIRE

Cerandar woke to the sounds of feasting. He felt crusted blood on his head and tried to open his eyes fully. It was painful, and he realised he was tied to a stake. As his blurry vision began to return, he could make out the flickering tongues of a campfire. Around it sat several armoured figures, their breastplates and helmets glinting in the light. He closed his eyes again and rested for a few more moments, listening to the night. Besides the talk of the warriors, and the hum of the fire, he could hear nothing. Then he twisted his head slightly, trying to get a glimpse of the rest of the campsite.

The cave mouth yawned, a vast maw in the hillside. It was surrounded by wooden stakes decorated with skulls and the helmets of elven warriors. A couple of spears stood blade first in the soil. There was no sign of the sorcerer or any other warriors. They must have gone down into the dragon's lair, he thought bitterly.

He knew they had failed in their mission. The chance to recover the dragon eggs had been lost. The results were far worse than if humans or orcs had got them; instead the forces of Tzeentch had claimed them. It was the worst possible result. Not only would they use a dragon against all who stood before them, it would be a horrifying creature, a twisted spawn like Galrauch or Baudros. He sighed. He had to escape.

Slowly, he coaxed the hidden blade in his sleeve down towards his hand. When one of the helmets glanced in his direction, he feigned unconsciousness. There was no telling they had noticed his awareness anyway; a smashed open ale barrel sat near them, probably the spoils of war from their rampage south. They were probably intoxicated.

The cold steel of the knife touched his skin and cautiously, he started sawing through his bonds. His eyes flickered to where his greatsword lay, amidst a pile of armour, weapons and other trophies. It shone invitingly in the light, as if summoning him to take it up. Finally, he was free. Spending another few moments to relax and get the blood running again, he tightened his jaw and waited for the right moment.

The warriors sat in a circle around the campfire, drinking and conversing in the dark tongue. They were thoroughly drunk. None of them noticed as a stealthy figure crept past them to the weapons pile. The next thing they knew a huge greatsword swept through the neck armour of one of their number, spilling a torrent of black blood into the fire. Before they could do anything, Cerandar was amongst them, exploiting the joints in their armour with skilled precision. It wasn't long until the four warriors were all dead.

Breathing heavily, Cerandar didn't waste time. The rest of the army could return at any moment; he had no idea how long they'd been gone. Leaving his armour, he sprinted away into the night.

http://nemesis.au. 


	3. Serpentine Storm

THE NEMESIS CROWNORCS & GOBLINS VS HIGH ELVES

SERPENTINE STORM

Hordak's new Orcish horde, the Ed Bashers, has surged forth from the Green Heart, burning and plundering any villages it comes across. Eventually, the horde reaches the road running alongside the River Talabec. To the southwest, marching up this same road is the Warhost of Tor Karandell. With his army reinforced by troops from the port Marienburg elf quarter, Prince Elreth has received reports concerning the whereabouts of a certain Chaos army.

SCENARIO STATISTICS

**Points:**

2000

**Participants:**

High Elves

(Pat Quinnell)

Orcs & Goblins

(Mark Gunton)

**Scenario:**

Pitched Battle

**Location:**

The Great Confluence, near the Talabec

**Timeline: **2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

**High Elves:**

Warhost of Tor Karandell

**General:**

Commander Cerandar

**Chaos Hordes:**

Hordak's Ed Bashers

**General:**

Hordak

THE STORY SO FAR…

The Brotherhood of the Silver Falcon, under the infernal command of the Daemon Prince Garathor has captured one of the dragon eggs from the Ancient Dragon's Cave. The Brotherhood has not been able to take all the eggs, as they are too big to transport easily. However, the egg they do have is now sealed in a metal chest, protected by Tzeentchian magic.

Prince Elreth has sworn that the Brotherhood must be stopped. He has learned from his fellows in Marienburg that the minions of the god of sorcery are reputed to be in the Great Confluence, the southernmost region of the Great Forest. With new troops under his command, he sets forth with grim determination. Unfortunately, it is at this time that the newly arisen chosen one of the great green gods Gork and Mork, Hordak, is leading his horde on a new Waaagh! So far all he's had for his boyz to fight is puny humans. But now a shiny army of glittering elves has appeared on the horizon. In an orcish mind, this is an indicator that its time to have some fun…

TURN 1

The sun's light glinted from the polished armour of the High Elves. Ranks of young nobles, the Silver Helms, flower of Ulthuan's cavalry, halted their steeds at the head of the column. The captain narrowed his eyes. He could feel something, a stirring in the winds. Raising his hand, he motioned for the riders to continue along the forest road. It was then that an eerie sound blasted through the still air. It spoke with a monstrous, booming voice, a deep roar coming from a horn that must've been ripped from a ferocious beast. Then came the thunder, as many hooves rumbled across the hardened ground.

'Ambush! All riders to the head of the column! We're under attack!'

In perfect synchronicity, the second unit of Silver Helm knights split off from the rear of the column and formed up near their brother squadron. The Spearelves unslung their shields and tightened their regiments. In seconds the points of their weapons were a forest of glittering blades. The newly recruited company of archers unshouldered their bows and checked quivers. There was the rush of massive wings and a shadow passed over the army. With a crash that sent up a cloud of dust, Lightwing landed on the road, Elreth secured on his mighty back. Both dragon and prince's wounds had been healed and the light of battle shone in Elreth's eyes.

'Elves of Tor Karandell!' As one the army stood to attention. 'A vast orc horde comes upon us. Even now you can hear their barbaric war cries, the clamour of their iron. We will stand before them, and we will not flee!'

A bestial roar echoed from the forest as if to punctuate the prince's words.

'The orcs are primitive and crude. Their machines are tough, yes, but we are dextrous, and our skill with blades is unsurpassed. Do not fear them, do not allow them to best us, and we will be victorious this day!'

There was a hearty cheer as the serpentine beast and its handsome rider swept away into the sky. As the Silver Helms took off into the woods to flank their orcish foes, the rest of the army marched resolutely forwards, confident that today they would be triumphant.

Cerandar, positioned amidst the shining glory of his infantry, nodded his head. The High Elves had fallen on hard times these last two battles. But soon the gods would favour them. Closing his eyes, he reached out to the winds of magic. They were not blowing strongly, and he couldn't see much of the enemy forces yet. There was green…much green, savage power…suddenly his mind reeled as another spirit was sent crashing against his own. The power involved was immense, searing his mind with primitive force. Rushing back to his mortal shell, his eyes snapped open and he took in a lungful of fresh air. He could see moving masses of greenskins now, just within the fringes of the forest. And he knew what was leading this force. It wasn't just some warlord, some chieftain. It was a shaman.

'We go through this way! Den we can ambush them from anuvva direction!'

'No!' Hornhead lashed out, knocking the offending orc on the head. 'We continue onto da road! Then we scare da enemy as we come thunderin' down upon them!'

'E's right! The other way we can take 'em off guard!'

'You's my lot! We do this MY way!'

The boar riders were divided. Snarling and growling, the boars were soon pulled in different directions as the Boss tried to sort his boyz out.

The Wolf riders padded through the forest, ignoring their brutish cousins. The two chariots, one pulled by boars, the other by wolves, trundled eagerly forwards towards the forest edge, their wheels churning up the soil beneath their bulk. The orc and night goblin infantry, also eager to get some glory, surged forwards, a wave of greenskins.

'Hur, hur, hur…' Hordak sniggered, watching his army of warriors moving from the back of Snakeface, his hideous wyvern. Soon his heavily muscled fighters would crush the elves and actually have some fun. The only things they'd killed so far had been weak humies, and not even warriors. They'd simply been peasants, and stuff. This time they faced something more of an actual challenge, something worth fighting against. He rubbed his lower fangs. 'Kill the skinnies! Waaagh! Waaagh orcs! Kill the skinnies! Blood and bones for Gork and Mork! Waaagh!'

TURN 2

Elreth smiled. Soaring through the azure skies, he felt the blood rising, the call to war rushing through him. He had been beaten, but it would take more than a daemon prince to fell him permanently. He'd use this opportunity to exact a little vengeance.

'Come Lightwing,' he mused, 'let's toast some Night Goblin.' Flashing a grin, the beast flapped its pinions and sped downwards.

Closer and closer the black-robed figures came as the great dragon spiralled earthward. Looking up to see the legendary creature, the goblins panicked and started to flee. Faced with such awesome power, Elreth was not surprised. He narrowed his eyes as they closed with the puny monsters. Was that a fanatic he could see, supported in their midst? Before he could confirm it, Lightwing swept past the goblins and alighted on the ground. He sent up a whirlwind of debris and inhaled deeply. Terrified of what was to come, the night goblins took flight. Then a broad jet of flame erupted from the dragon's throat. The goblins' screams tore the air as bodies burned. Eight of them were transformed into living torches, their flaming corpses running amok before falling as charred wrecks to the ground. Then the unthinkable happened. One of the goblins seemed to get hold of the last goblins and stopped their retreat. Slowly, the regiment ordered itself, and although trembling, turned again to face the majestic beast. Elreth glared down at his foes, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

'Who would've thought? No matter, you'll be dead soon enough.'

The Silver Helms galloped at full speed through the forest, searching out the orcs and goblins. The steeds' manes and tails flew out behind them, branches rushing past in a blur. As the three companies of spearelves marched onwards up the road, Cerandar cursed the winds of magic. Frustrated, he felt that they were against them this day. He couldn't find the power he needed to cast his spells. This was not good, considering his discovery about the enemy general.

'Fire!' As the ranks of goblins broke the forests edge a volley of arrows took flight, like a vengeful swarm of dragonflies. The deadly projectiles fell upon the wolf chariot, pincushioning it. One of the arrows impaled the warrior's body, and with a scream he was knocked from the platform. The chariot resembled a mechanical hedgehog, but still it came.

'Waaagh! Kill, my warriors! Kill the skinnies! Now is the time of Gork and Mork!'

The shaman boss bellowed his encouragement to the horde as it flowed from the forest and onto the road in front of the High Elves. His mount flapped its wings and clacked its fanged jaws ferociously, hungry for flesh.

'Patience, Snakeface, my pet,' Hordak soothed the wyvern. 'Soon, you will be feasting on elf flesh!' The deadly sting in the creature's tail uncoiled and lashed from side to side. Spying the elf general, the shaman snarled and kicked Snakeface into motion. With a swirl of broken foliage and earth the monster took off and sailed towards Elreth's position.

The wolf chariot's driver whipped the wolves, desperate to make the distance before another rain of ithilmar stopped his machine dead in its tracks. The Night Goblins marched onwards, trying to walk past the stationary dragon with its smirking elf lord. Bursting from the forest with a flurry of leaves and broken branches was the boar chariot, its boars' eyes gleaming with bestial fury. Steam puffed from their nostrils as they galloped, the chariot bouncing crazily and threatening to throw off its orcish riders.

TURN 3

The High Elf Prince stared as the massive, serpentine fiend thrashed through the air towards him. They were quite ungainly, these wyverns. He could see its hatred for Lightwing gleaming in its devilish eyes. The shaman on its back was waving a crude staff, his backside seated on a strange, black and white fur covering the like of which he hadn't seen before. So, this was the enemy leader. He grinned, twirling his sword. Lightwing caught on, and leapt into the sky. Together they would meet the wyvern and its rider head on. As the two generals shrieked through the air, both readied themselves for the serpentine storm.

'Time to meet your destiny, orc filth!'

There was a thud as the two flying beasts smacked bodily into each other. Instantly they were slashing and ripping at the other with curved talons and massive jaws. They curled and twisted like two great sky serpents, engaged in bitter battle. On their backs their riders clung on and did their best to attack the other whenever the beasts' movement brought them close enough to strike. Elreth's dancing sword raced across Hordak's skin, opening up wounds that befouled the sky with orcish blood. With a roar of rage, the shaman hacked out at the dragon, but in a burst of blue sparks his blade was deflected from the creature's scales. As if to temporarily swat an annoying insect, Lightwing sent Hordak flying from Snakeface's back. The falling shaman plummeted downwards until he became a black speck below. Eager to have dealt with his enemy so soon, Elreth concentrated his attacks on the wyvern. But Snakeface, rasping at the apparent death of his master, dug his talons deep into Lightwing's arm. Wrestling, the giant creatures locked themselves together as they fought for supremacy.

Below, in the forest, the Silver Helms smashed their way through towards the wolf riders. The spearelves continued advancing, one company standing firm whilst the boar chariot thundered towards them. On a signal, the elf warriors raised their spear blades and charged to meet the orc war machine. This would rob it of its impetus, and stop the deadly scythed wheels from cutting them to shreds.

There was a crash as both sides met. Elf spears clashed with orc blade and whip, and the steaming boars tried to trample their opponents beneath iron-shod hooves. But neither side could gain sway, and the swirl of close quarter fighting ensued.

'Finally,' Cerandar breathed as he felt the winds of magic responding to his need. Raising his sword, he collected the power to him, each droplet of energy imbuing the blade with crimson fire. As the charge built up, he closed his eyes and focussed. This spell would be important. Flames of the Phoenix leapt and danced upon his blade, becoming a fiery convocation. 'Now, night goblins, feel the warmth of death!'

Flames of the Phoenix shot outwards from the commander's weapon. Igniting the bodies of one of the night goblin regiments, it soon roared into a raging inferno. Shrill screams of panic split the air again as the goblins were subjected to the burning tongues. This time it was no less than thirteen burning corpses that littered the ground. Yet, incredibly, the goblins held, even as they begged inwardly to flee this slaughter.

The time of the wolf chariot had come. Another dark cloud of arrows descended, the arrows eliminating the driver and killing both wolves. The chariot stopped abruptly, its arrow-clogged wheels grinding to a halt in the dust.

With vicious war cries the wolf riders swarmed into the silver helms. The blades of the goblins crossed with bright, elven steel and the howls of wolves filled the forest glades. But before long the goblins realised their weapons couldn't penetrate the elves' armour. The knights swept their swords through their foes, cutting down two goblin riders. The steeds, too, trampled another two beneath their silver-shod hooves. There was only one possible outcome: the goblins turned their lupine mounts to flee and with a shout the silver helms spurred their steeds onwards into the squig hoppers behind.

With the boar boyz finally coming out of their disagreements, as they had lost the element of surprise, the other night goblins charged into the spearelves on the road. Like a mass of disorganised rabble, they ran towards their enemies, waving their weapons wildly. Suddenly their fanatics were released. The three whirling maniacs smashed through the elves, their ball-and-chains crushing three elves in the devastating attack. In return the elves struck out with their long spears, felling six goblins in vengeance for their fallen kin.

Greyskull grimaced and adjusted the beast skull sitting on his head. Uttering words of ancient power, he summoned the savage, green winds to him. With a flash of energy, the Flames of the Phoenix flickered and vanished.

With vengeful cries, the spearelves fighting the boar chariot stabbed and slashed out, slaying the boars. Surrounding the machine, they continued their relentless assault.

Up in the sky, amidst white clouds, Elreth couldn't find the strength to pierce the wyvern's gnarled hide. Neither could Lightwing damage the beast, yet Snakeface managed to wound the dragon again in his rage and seething hatred for his master's slayer. 

TURN 4

The last of the night goblins engaged with the spearelves were cut down, like wheat before elven scythes. Consolidating their position, they reformed and marched onwards. Cerandar attempted to cast more magic, summoning his power to him. With the major enemy shaman dead, he assumed it would be an easy task. Yet the one called Greyskull remained, mumbling his savage gibberish to resist the deadly High Magic. Elven archery rained down still, the steel-fanged missiles hewing down five more of the burned night goblins. With over half their number dead, this time they could not stand, and fled.

Silver helm lances punched through squig flesh with ease, throwing the goblin riders to be trampled beneath the steeds' hooves. With the squig hoppers wiped out in one devastating charge, the young nobles slammed into the fleeing wolf riders. This time there was no escape and the death screams of the goblins echoed throughout the forest.

'Why does my blade do nothing?' Elreth was frustrated yet again as his sword clanged off the wyvern's scales. Lightwing roared, his jaws opening wide and he slashed his claws at the beast's hide. But Snakeface turned and twisted in the air, evading the worst of the damage. But in return he couldn't penetrate Lightwing's natural armour, his claws sliding off his opponent's serpentine body. Spitting spitefully, Hordak's pet hissed with loathing.

On the ground, the night goblin fanatics continued to whirl and gyrate, their iron balls spinning in the light. The orcs, not having done any fighting yet, manoeuvred to face the triumphant silver helms in an effort to get some killing done and Hornhead's boar boyz bellowed with annoyance as the flower of the elven cavalry evaded their clumsy steeds. This was surely folly: such a target worthy of fighting and they were being denied everything!

There was a mighty crack as the boar chariot was split asunder. Surging forth, the spearelves swarmed around the cabin, overwhelming its orc crew. The orcs hacked out savagely at their foes but the elves were fast and dodged their attacks with impunity.

Now, Greyskull would try to cast his own magic. The master was dead, he thought, but Greyskull still had power. Raising his hands to the sky, he bellowed his praise of the gods. But the elf mage dissipated the energy he had gathered. Cerandar had turned the winds.

The bright, elven sword glowed as it struck a blow to the wyvern's body. Blood leaked and fell in black droplets like dark rain. Infuriated, Lightwing snarled and lashed out again at Snakeface. This time, he too injured the beast, ripping a ghastly cleft in Snakeface's side. Snakeface's efforts came to nothing as the elven rider and his loyal steed concentrated on tumbling through the air, away from the vengeful wyvern.

TURN 5

With the fleeing night goblins destroyed by the rampaging spearelves in a charge of glory, the Silver Helms reined in their steeds. They had done well this day. Now the shaman Greyskull stood in their sights.

'Charge! Destroy the beast!'

As the nobles rumbled towards him, Greyskull quickly gathered his wits and fled into the woods. There was no use sacrificing himself for the horde. He would live to see another day.

'Coward,' the captain sneered, watching the shaman retreating. 'Onwards, to victory!' The silver helms galloped past the orcs to the space beneath which the wyvern was fighting.

A hail of arrows put an end to one of the fanatics. In a split second a dozen arrows impaled the drugged goblin and the ball and chain stopped spinning. Nearby, with a bestial roar, the boar chariot crew were hacked down and slain by the victorious spearelves.

'Take this, you brute,' Elreth spat at Snakeface. His sword cleaved through the monster's head, shearing off one of its horns. Lightwing too, seized the opportunity. His jaws closed on the wyvern's wing. With a horrifying ripping sound, he wrenched its arm from the socket and discarded the bloody limb, trailing a path of blood to the earth below. Snakeface screeched in pain and agony, lashing up with his feet. One of his claws managed to cut Lightwing across the leg, but it was a minor wound.

'Waaagh! Time to die, skinniness!' At last the boar boyz, led by the big boss Hornhead, had finally managed to close with their elven opponents. Now he would get some honour! Crashing into the silver helms, the orcs hit a wall of steel and were unable to fell a single elf. One of the boar riders was hewed down by a knight. Howling his anger Hornhead sounded the retreat. The battle had already turned against them, his master was dead and his forces scattered. Chancing a look behind him, he cursed the green gods as the silver helms trampled his unit into the undergrowth. No, this wasn't how it was meant to be! Too quick, his boyz had been destroyed! Before he knew what was happening, a lance was thrust into Boarus' back and Hornhead was thrown forwards. He rolled aside as an elven steed thundered across the boar corpse, turning it into a bloody mass of flesh and tusks. Luckily he had fallen amidst a cluster of giant fungi and the silver helms missed him as they cantered away. Bloody elves, Hornhead thought. Getting to his feet, he took up his axe and trudged away into the forest.

A fanatic span into the spearelves, killing one as its revolving ball smashed a path through armour, flesh and bone. Deadly still, the insane goblin span away across the road, laughing maniacally.

'And now its time you died, monster,' Elreth said, a light of finality coming into his eyes. His sword clanged from Snakeface's scales and the beast hissed, recoiling out of reach. They were lower now, barely a hundred feet above the road. Elreth could see the High Elves below, the sunlight glinting off their armour. There seemed to be a serious lack of orcs or goblins. 'Kill it, Lightwing! For Ulthuan, and for glory!'

Lightwing, a barely contained rage blazing in his eyes, lashed out at the bleeding wyvern. Their overall height was falling, as Snakeface couldn't keep up with only one wing. It was only a matter of time before they touched down. Or crashed down in Snakeface's case. Lightwing kept pace with the wyvern's descent, the sharp edge of his tail stabbing into the beast's throat. Ripping it free, he flew clear as the wyvern gave one last death cry, blood streaming from the ragged wound, and began to fall.

Fifty feet. Elreth watched as the Silver Helms below parted formation and galloped away.

Forty feet. The remnants of the orc horde began dispersing into the forest.

Thirty feet. A bolt of incandescent power, Fury of Khaine, vaporised a fanatic.

Twenty feet. The archers shot down one a single orc as the beasts retreated.

Ten feet. Lightwing, sweeping across the fleeing enemy, exhaled. Four orcs were incinerated by his fiery breath, their burning bodies spiralling and crashing to the ground. Seconds later, Snakeface's corpse hurtled into the earth, sending up a titanic explosion of rocks and dust. The serpentine storm had ended.

Coming to land atop the wyvern's scaly corpse, Lightwing opened his jaws and gave vent to a almighty roar of victory. On his back Prince Elreth raised his sword to the skies. Below, the High Elves of Tor Karandell gathered and dusted down their armour.

'My brothers! We have survived this ambush, and will continue searching for the tainted dragon's egg! We are triumphant, we have beaten the orcs and victory is for Tor Karandell!'

Any other speech was lost amidst the vigorous cheering of the elves.

A VICTORY FOR THE SONS OF TOR KARANDELL

Hordak stood on a hill beyond the north side of the river Talabec. From here, although distant, he could see his faithful mount, Snakeface, falling through the sky. His army was in tatters, and he'd have to gather a new horde. Giving a big, orcish sigh, he turned away and trudged up into the lonely hills. Perhaps here he could find another beast to serve him. Then he'd return, and the world would tremble before his greenskinned might.

Behind the marching column of Tor Karandell, a single night goblin fanatic whirled away down the road, like a spinning gyro of doom.

http://nemesis.au. 


	4. Dark Innocence

THE NEMESIS CROWNCHAOS HORDES VS LAHMIAN VAMPIRE COUNTS

DARK INNOCENCE

The Brotherhood of the Silver Falcon is in possession of a great dragon egg. Garathor will be pleased when he returns from the Realm of Chaos. With a newly born Chaos dragon hatching in the heart of the Empire, the Old World will soon be in for a new age of destruction. However, the Brotherhood, marching south whilst searching for the Nemesis Crown has unintentionally invaded the territory of Lord Moldovia, Necromancer and ruler of the Tower of Midnight. Raising his undead force, and summoning his vampire thrall, Lady Amanda DeFlowna, he prepares to stop the invaders rampaging through his lands…

SCENARIO STATISTICS

**Points:**

1000

**Participants:**

Chaos Hordes

(Spike Nichols)

Lahmian Vampire Counts

(Ben Smith)

**Scenario:**

Pitched Battle

**Location:**

The Great Confluence, near the Tower of Midnight

**Timeline: **2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

**Chaos Hordes:**

The Brotherhood of the Silver Falcon

**General:**

Navaak Redaxe

**Lahmian Vampire Counts:**

The Minions of Midnight

**General:**

Lord Moldovia

THE STORY SO FAR…

With Garathor still fighting his way back to the mortal realm, his army, the Brotherhood of the Silver Falcon has carved a bloody path south through the Great Forest. Their search for the Nemesis Crown has brought them into the Great Confluence region, where they have stormed unknowingly into the realm of Moldovia, ruled over by the Necromancer, Lord Moldovia. This man has control over the surrounding lands, and also controls the newly awakened vampire, Amanda DeFlowna. Although still under his influence to an extent, the vampire thirsts for blood and freedom from her master. Also, should the forces of Undeath find victory against the Brotherhood, a certain prize will be theirs. And who knows what the necromancer will do with a dragon's egg in his possession…

TURN 1

'What's that?' Lord Moldovia squinted as the fading sun glinted on silver armour.

'It's as I thought,' Lady Amanda DeFlowna drawled casually, her voice oozing sexuality. He turned, his eyes glancing across her desirable figure.

'And what was that exactly?'

'You fool,' the vampire spat. 'You aroused me from my slumber because you sensed a change in the winds. You sensed an enemy approaching.'

'Oh yes, that.' Moldovia's eyes flicked up to her face. 'I remember now.' He turned once again to see a warband of armoured warriors emerging from the treeline below. 'The invaders will be destroyed. In the name of Moldovia, die, scum!'

The last rays of the sun were blocked out as the conjured dark clouds moved across the sky. As shadows gripped the realm, the necromancer grinned and began chanting.

'Forwards! For the Brotherhood!' The Chaos Knight leader roared, waving his sword in a wide arc. Armour clanking and bridles jingling, the horsemen cantered into the clearing, glancing left and right. Alongside them the infantry marched, searching for any place that might hide the ancient dwarven artefact. The great tower would yield to them much treasure, even if the crown wasn't there. With a dragon's egg, and the Nemesis Crown, Navaak would be favoured, perhaps even enough to ascend to Garathor's level. Don't get your hopes up, the sorcerer thought to himself. Even favoured by the god of fate, that chance was a small one. He watched as his lumbering trolls followed his lead. Stupid creatures. Once in battle they'd be fine.

With a ghostly wail, like the wind in deep winter, the transparent forms of the spirit host drifted across the tower grounds. Their eyes glowed with supernatural hatred. On the other side of the woods that surrounded the Tower of Midnight, the earth burst upwards as clawed, bony hands broke through the soil. Dragging rusted swords, broken spears and other decrepit weapons with them, the skeleton soldiers answered the call to war. A stone slab slid open in the tower's base and a cadre of Black Knights galloped eerily forth, their dented and scabby armour creaking. They were led by the vampiress herself. She could smell the blood on the wind; hear the voices of those who were alive. It was time for her to feed.

The winds of magic swirling about him like a dark cloak, Lord Moldovia reached out and clutched at the power he needed for his sorcery. Folding his arms, he drew the black magic into himself, imbuing his hands with the dust of ages. His household troops might be frail, but his magic, his art, was magnificent. And woe would befall the enemy before long.

TURN 2

'Engage! Destroy those spritely things!' The Chaos knights picked up speed as they sighted the ghostly spectres floating towards their position. The warriors and trolls also advanced, eager to smash the foe and tear down this tower to claim whatever treasures it kept hidden.

Uttering words of darkness, Navaak tried to summon the energies of chaos to him. But it seemed that something was preventing the winds flowing effectively. He should've known, it was a master of black sorcery who commanded this undead host; not a follower of the Ruinous Powers but an acolyte of Nagash's kind.

The spirit hosts flowed like water into the ranks of chaos knights. Warcries split the air but the heavy swords of the knights could not strike the ghosts, sweeping straight through them. It was like trying to slay mist. The spirits struck out in return, felling two knights with their unholy claws.

The festering black knights cantered slowly towards their enemies, the pits of their eyes glowing with green hellfires. Amanda's own eyes began to turn red as she felt the red thirst. As the dead clambered from their sleeping places and shambled into formation, Moldovia smiled with sinister glee. His army, his minions, were answering the call and preparing for war. As the skies darkened a bolt of thunder burst from the heavens. There was a hellish shriek and Lady Selene rushed out of her upper floor chamber. The banshee had arrived.

'And let the Curse of Years befall our enemies…'

Suddenly there was a flash of blue light and Moldovia staggered back. His magic spell had been dispelled. Damn it, he thought, maybe there would be some resistance after all…

TURN 3

Rumbling forwards, the trolls gave voice to a mighty bellow of anger. The stink of the dead assailed their nostrils. The warriors too, clashed their weapons on their shields, boosting morale and overcoming their fear of the undead men-at-arms. Garathor would not be pleased if they failed and were defeated by these filthy bone-men.

With a nova of azure energy, Navaak unleashed the Blue Fire upon his foes. There was a howling in the winds as power flooded into him. An evil laugh ripped itself from his throat. But the bolt of power fizzled out as it surrounded the black knights. Perturbed, the sorcerer ordered the Banner of Wrath to fire upon the skeletal foe. There was a flash as another bolt soared across the field to strike down four skeletons. Their remains crumpled and scattered.

'Mortal things, you will die by my hand!' Amanda sneered as she directed her black knights into the charge. Thundering down upon skeletal hooves, the dead horsemen smashed into the trolls with incredible force. Navaak, overcome with a wash of fear from the unliving horrors, fled, his steed panicking in terror. Amanda couldn't help but laugh cruelly, and then transfixed one of the brutes with her piercing glare. Lashing out with her staff, she felt the snap of bones beneath the blow. Lances pierced another troll's warty hide and only one of the knights was unhorsed, its corpse shattering and falling in bits to the ground. Then the knights discarded their lances and unsheathed their mighty wight blades. These weapons shone with darkness, and the trolls turned tail and fled. Issuing a new war cry, the vampiress gestured and her knights crashed into the warriors behind the retreating monsters.

A hideous scream split the air and the remaining chaos knights fell from their saddles, clutching their bleeding ears. Their bodies were pulled down by the ghostly spirits and laughing insanely, Lord Moldovia took hold of the winds of magic. Drawing upon the power, he greedily supped it and raised up more skeletons to feed his growing army. Soon the ranks of his regiments were bolstered with more soldiers.

TURN 4

'Regroup, you dolts,' Navaak snarled at his trolls. Embarrassed, the trolls ground to a halt and about faced, a determined look entering their eyes. It would take more than a bunch of dead things to eliminate these beasts of chaos.

Amanda screamed in anger as her staff head screeched from the armour of her foes, yielding golden sparks. The black knights were not so luckless, and two chaos warriors fell to their blades, the blood drenching the earth and enriching the undead soil. In return a halberd thrust from one of the warriors hurled one knight from his skeletal steed, the bones trampled into the dust beneath iron-shod boots. But the combat dragged on, neither side willing to give in to their enemies.

The undead horde continued its relentless, untiring march. As Lady Selene and the ghosts drifted almost lazily through the woods, the skeletons creaked and groaned; automatons bound to the will of Lord Moldovia.

'Blasted winds,' Moldovia shouted at the uncaring sky. He couldn't summon enough power for his spells, and the enemy wizard still lived.

The luscious, female vampire whirled her staff again, knocking a warrior from his feet with a blow to the head. A wight blade sliced down another, but the knights' armour was too great for the warriors to penetrate. The clamour of steel ringing in the dank air continued.

TURN 5

The Tzeentchian sorcerer waved his staff, mentally directing the trolls as he broke off and sought cover in the nearby woods. Closing his eyes and calling all the power to him, he let the winds flow into his mind and body. Hailing the great god of sorcery, Tzeentch, he gathered it to him and unleashed the Blue Fire once again. This time the magic worked its spell, decimating four skeletons in a whirlwind of blue flames.

Lady Amanda DeFlowna smiled sweetly as she decapitated another warrior with a flick of her staff. In vengeance, the soldiers of Tzeentch hacked down one of the black knights with a spray of brittle bones and rusting armour. As the press of armoured bodies surged forwards, the vampiress suddenly felt a tinge of regret. There wasn't much blood to be had here, the enemies' throats were well protected and it seemed that the battle was turning in their favour. Snarling an oath, her canines protruding from her delicate mouth, she turned her horse and fled, followed by her faithful black knights. With a roar, the warriors pursued.

As Amanda continued her withdrawal, Selene led her spirit hosts through the thick woods. With the chaos knights disposed of, it would be little problem to eliminate the lumbering trolls and dwindling warriors.

The real problem was the enemy wizard, Moldovia thought as he luckily avoided a backlash of power. Gritting his teeth, he rubbed his temples. The winds were not being cooperative today. He had barely raised another rank or so of his skeletons, and his dark sorcery had not had the desired effect on the enemy infantry.

TURN 6

Smashing into the skeleton soldiers like a fist of iron upon a rotting splinter, the chaos warriors hacked and hewed about them. Four of the dead burst into heaps of splintered bones, their weapons clattering to the ground around them. The skeletons' blades scraped pitifully from the warriors' plate armour, and two more of the corpses crumbled to dust.

Lady Selene, flanked by ghosts, emerged from behind a tree to confront Navaak Redaxe.

'Die, witch,' the sorcerer spat, hacking out at the banshee with his axe. In response the ghostly wretch avoided the trampling hooves of his horse and issued a piercing scream. Navaak's mind reeled as the sound ricocheted around his skull. He clutched his ears, clamping his jaws with the pain. The howl of the banshee seemed to go on forever, and soon his vision clouded over as he fell into unconsciousness. Braying in fear, his steed panicked and fled into the forest.

Then it was the skeletons' turn.

'Time to die, chaos filth!' Lord Moldovia cried as his minions charged into the enemy ranks. The larger unit of the unholy warriors crashed into their heavily armoured foes, bringing two chaos fighters down. The necromancer smiled, pleased at his otherwise puny warriors. He cursed the winds of magic; they were certainly not favouring him. Now he would have to rely on his undead hordes. But the chaos warriors were powerful and burst the ribcages of another three skeletal soldiers in great sweeping strokes. Then, with a single blow, one of the warriors brought his axe around and cut down Lord Moldovia.

'No!' An iron boot silenced him as it kicked his head and he lost consciousness.

Another skeleton crumbled, its mouldering bones clattering amidst the clank of armour. But soon the ranks of the damned closed in around the warriors of chaos. As if heeding a call of vengeance, the skeletons surrounded them on all sides, a circle of bony death.

Lady Amanda DeFlowna laughed as the undead hordes hacked down the remaining warriors of Tzeentch. Her black knights sat beside her, silent, unmoving. She sensed Moldovia was injured. Serves him right, she thought. One day she'd be free of him forever.

MIDNIGHT DESCENDS UPON THE FIELD

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	5. Jaws of the Wolf

THE NEMESIS CROWNCHAOS HORDES VS HIGH ELVES

JAWS OF THE WOLF

With the main force of the Warhost of Tor Karandell marching alongside the river Talabec, seeking the whereabouts of the dragon's egg, Prince Elreth has sent Commander Cerandar ahead with a small company. Using his mage senses, Cerandar soon detects a strange energy signature being emitted from the nearby woods. Crossing the river, he leads his contingent to scout out the land. Thus ensnared, the Black Wolf Templars spring their trap…

SCENARIO STATISTICS

**Points:**

1000

**Participants:**

Chaos Hordes

(Andy Bain)

High Elves

(Pat Quinnell)

**Scenario:**

Pitched Battle

**Location:**

The Great Confluence region of the Great Forest, north of the River Talabec

**Timeline: **2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

**Chaos Hordes:**

The Black Wolf Templars

**General:**

Vorak

**High Elves:**

The Warhost of Tor Karandell

**General:**

Cerandar

THE STORY SO FAR…

The Warhost of Tor Karandell have scored a great victory against an ambushing orc horde, Hordak's Ed Bashers. The shaman has retreated to find another wyvern and his minions have fled back to their forest lairs. However, danger still lurks along the path, and the High Elves have triggered the fury of the Black Wolf Templars. Followers of the mysterious Black Wolf, an incarnation of the Chaos War God, Khorne, they relish the chance to begin their blood-letting and skull-reaping. Their leader, Vorak, has the tactical mind of a veteran who fought in the Storm of Chaos, and, unlike other bloodthirsty warlords, is aided by something more than simple battle lust. Luring the company of High Elves into a trap on the hostile side of the River Talabec, he anticipates many skulls to be claimed and offered to his glorious new patron god. If he can prove himself worthy, he might just be rewarded with an eternity of trampling his enemies beneath iron-shod hooves. And this, according to him, is a dream definitely worth fighting for…

TURNS 1-6

'There is an enemy army amassing just beyond the treeline,' the silver helm captain reported to his superior, the warrior-turned-mage Cerandar.

'I am aware of that,' Cerandar mused. He opened his eyes and looked up at his cavalry officer. 'Form up the company. We will be attacked within moments.'

'Yes, lord Cerandar.'

Before long the High Elf contingent had grouped together and Cerandar had issued his commands. He knew that the infantry facing them were the vile warriors of chaos, in particular the servants of the war god. They were aided by a formidable squadron of chaos knights, and he was not looking forward to fighting them; the recent past had testified to that. With their backs to the river, the elves would have to defend themselves; there was no easy escape route. There had been no ford: Cerandar's magic had assisted the company in crossing; there was no time to cast the spell again to allow them to cross back. Splitting off to the left flank, the Silver Helms raised their lances in salute to their leader and galloped away towards the trees. Their objective was to engage the enemy cavalry. It was a futile tactic, but would certainly draw attention away from the spearelves and archers. The elf infantry formed a solid line of defence, their eyes on the treeline. Positioned on a low hill, the archers nocked their bows and readied to open fire at any moment. At least this time they had not been ambushed. This time, they were ready. Cerandar, standing behind the line of spears, closed his eyes and concentrated. Summoning the winds of magic, he called the power to him. He could not detect any other spellcasters in the vicinity. This was a good thing. Or was it? There was something else…some dire aura gathered around this foe.

General Vorak slammed his pitch-black visor and grinned wolfishly. Immediately his eyes began to glow, casting a hellish red light through the gap in his close helm. Now he would show his new god, the Black Wolf, what he was made of. This would be far greater than serving the weakling Empire of men. This was what he had yearned for all his life. At last, he had the physical power and combat prowess he craved. His new order, of knights and warriors, was assembled. The time of the Black Wolf Templars had just begun. Kicking his snorting, nightmarish steed into motion, he glanced left and right at his fellow templars.

'A new power is arising! Its victory is at hand! Praise be to the Black Wolf!'

A barbaric warcry echoed all around him as his troops raised their weapons and mustered for the assault.

The first ranks of warriors broke through the trees, smashing branches aside and trampling the ground into mud underfoot. They wore chainmail shirts, full helmets crowned with horns and flowing plumes and carried axes and round shields. These were the soldiers of the Black Wolf Templars, eager to spill blood and claim skulls for their new, shadowy deity.

'Fire!' Clouds of arrows descended on the foe as they marched, but they slowed little. These were disciplined men, Cerandar thought, mentally tough as well as physically. As he watched, two of the warriors were felled by arrows, their chainmail pierced. But still they came, unrelenting and inhuman behind their black helmets. There was a bestial roar as what could only be described as a spawn of chaos lumbered through the woods on the right flank. It was hugely muscled, both hairy and scaly, with long, ape-like limbs. Was it true that this creature had once been a man? His attention was wrested back to the centre field as the barbaric warriors issued their war cries and charged into the shining shield wall.

Like a wave of fur and metal they crashed against the spearelves, who stood firm. Axes clashed with long shields and in return no less than three ranks of spears stabbed back, impaling the warriors and throwing them to the ground. The usual battle din filled the air; combat was joined. The elves fought valiantly, and in a short space of time they had driven back the chainmail-clad warriors, pursuing them as they fled and running them down. It was a minor victory for Cerandar's contingent.

The polished black lustre of the foes' armour glinted through gaps between the tree trunks.

'Come out, you dogs,' the silver helm captain roared. 'Where is your sense of honour?' There was a harsh laugh and the band of chaos knights cantered into the clearing. They were clad in night black armour, edged in red and gold. They were a magnificent sight, with fur cloaks and stamping, horned steeds, their shields depicting a stylised wolf head.

'The word is wolf, not dog, you cur,' Vorak snarled, his voice metallic from within his helm. He raised his axe, a blood-soaked thing that gleamed with a daemonic light. 'Come and get some.'

Spurred on by the insult, the silver helm captain urged his steed forwards. Unable to hold back, the elf knights followed their leader, not realising what they were up against.

It was too late.

With a screech of metal, the silver helms hit a wall of infernal steel, their lances snapping on the chaos knights' armour. An evil laugh ripped itself from Vorak's throat as he hacked out wildly at the elves, slaying with every blow. The other templars joined in the massacre, their heavy swords slashing and cleaving through armour and bone. The silver helm captain was powerless to stop his unit being slaughtered. Desperately turning his steed, he shouted the retreat. But as the remnants of the silver helms made to flee, Vorak spurred his own knights forward and they trampled the enemy beneath iron-shod hooves. In a wash of blood and steel, it was over and the Black Wolf Templars churned the ground into bloody paste as they galloped around the left flank of the High Elf force.

'Realise your place in this world,' the aspiring champion growled. 'And stay there.'

The tramp of marching feet echoed eerily through the darkening woods. As the warriors of chaos materialised from the gloom, the High Elves gave voice to a call to battle. Rushing forwards, they clashed their weapons against the vile foe, hoping for the same success they had been rewarded with against the barbarians. But it was a fleeting hope. The dark warriors' armour was too strong and their weapons sang a song of blood. Elf after elf fell to the great sweeps of the axes and the battle turned into a massacre as the soil was drenched in Asur blood. Bursting through the scattered ranks of elves, the Black Wolf Templars on foot cut down all within reach and proceeded to systematically eliminate every spearelf within sight. It was not looking good for Tor Karandell.

'Fire!' The command came again, another cloud of arrows descending upon the hapless bloodbeast. Pin-cushioned, it gave one last roar of defiance before slumping to the ground.

But the archers, concentrating on their target, had not realised the danger of their elevated position. Cerandar, watching the butchery of his troops, retreated to the safety of the hill, but it seemed the battle was already lost. The chaos warriors rampaged across the field, killing and destroying the last of the spearelves, grinding their bodies into the mud. Worse still, the decapitations had begun, the bloody heads being thrown into an ungainly heap near a black wolf banner planted in the earth.

'Gather the heads,' came the harsh command. 'The Black Wolf will be pleased!'

Then came the thunder, as iron-shod hooves rumbled towards the hill. A venomous laugh echoed on the winds, as Cerandar's attempt to gather the energy was again thwarted. What was this aura, this shield preventing him from casting his spells?

'Well, well, well. Look's like we won't be using any cowardly magic today.'

Cerandar gathered the archers around him protectively. Coming up the hill was the enemy general, mounted on a huge, black beast with eyes that glowed with hellfires. He unsheathed his sword and prepared to sell his life dearly.

'You will pay for this insolence.'

'Will I now?' Vorak snorted. 'Destroy them! In the Black Wolf's name!'

Cerandar opened his eyes, breathing heavily. The white mist dissipated and he found himself standing beyond the river. He could hear the sounds of butchery. Grimacing, he swore to avenge those who had fallen in battle today. Yes, he thought as he fled, they'd be avenged.

IN THE REALM OF CHAOS THE BLACK WOLF HOWLS

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	6. The Wolf Bites

THE NEMESIS CROWNHIGH ELVES VS CHAOS HORDES

THE WOLF BITES

Cerandar has retreated back to the main army of Tor Karandell, with a dire warning of the Black Wolf Templars, a newly arisen Chaos warband. With key captains slain in the previous battle, the mage has some serious explaining to do to his superior, Prince Elreth Aeraendar. That is, unless he can compensate their loss with a quick and merciless raid on the chaos troops' stronghold in the Howling Hills…

SCENARIO STATISTICS

**Points:**

1000

**Participants:**

Chaos Hordes

(Andy Bain)

High Elves

(Pat Quinnell)

**Scenario:**

Pitched Battle

**Location:**

Foothills of the Howling Hills, north of the River Talabec

**Timeline: **2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

**Chaos Hordes:**

The Black Wolf Templars

**General:**

Vorak

**High Elves:**

The Warhost of Tor Karandell

**General:**

Cerandar

THE STORY SO FAR…

Cerandar and his contingent have been handed an inglorious defeat at the claws of the Black Wolf Templars. This resulted in the heavy losses of good troops, and, unfortunately for the Warhost of Tor Karandell, the deaths of key captains in the elven army. With Prince Elreth on a diplomatic mission to the nearby manor, seeking lodgings, Cerandar has decided to launch a raid on where he suspects the chaos warriors have a stronghold, in the foothills of the Howling Hills. If he can beat the enemy, and lay the decapitated bodies of the slain to rest properly, he may just retain some personal honour. However, if he suffers another defeat, Prince Elreth will not be pleased with the further loss of good, elven soldiers…

TURNS 1-6

Vorak watched through slitted eyes as the shining ranks of elf infantry advanced. Giving a wry smile, he slammed his visor and motioned deftly to his cavalry.

'So, the elves try again, eh? The injured wolf is most dangerous when cornered.' Kicking his monstrous, black steed, he galloped away down the wooded slopes. The thunder of the Black Wolf Templars followed, a trail of dust and earth rising behind them. There was the clink of chains and an ear-splitting roar as another spawn of the war god was unleashed. Thrashing its way forward, it wrenched trees from its path and down towards the prey. Lastly, the ever-present menace of the black armoured templar foot troops marched after their masters, eager to serve the Black Wolf.

The drums of war resounded from between the thickly forested hills. Here, in the foothills of the Howling Hills, Cerandar knew he was being watched, every moment. Once again the Black Wolf Templars were marching to war. There was no possible opportunity to ambush them, not in this terrain. If he was correct in his analysis, their stronghold sat atop one of the hills, surrounded by dense forest and dotted with sentry posts. Every possible angle had been covered. This warlord was indeed different, he thought. This was no war-mongering barbarian from the north. This man was acting with strategy, with tactics. This was a general, a man who knew how to play war, and had experience in the field. He wouldn't be surprised if that man had once served the Empire. Praying to his own gods, he hoped that this day his little grudge match would pay off. If it didn't, he would have to face Elreth alone.

Once again the spearelves faced the chaos infantry. The regiments clashed, spears against axes and hammers in the bloody heat of battle. The elves were brave, and courageous, but their steely discipline was no match for the anger and rage of the chaos warriors. Here the elves were, thinking they could despoil lands claimed by the Black Wolf Templars, threatening the base Lord Vorak had established. Within minutes the elves were thrown back, their retreat ending in a bloody slaughter as the templars hacked out with their gory weapons.

Not a single elf warrior was left alive.

On the other side of the battlefield, the second company of warriors, retainers of their lord and master, advanced towards the hated elves. Overhead a bolt the size of a man flew through the darkening skies. This time the Asur had brought a war machine with them, perhaps to cut through the heavy armour the Black Wolf Templars wore. But it glanced off many times, and soon the templars bore down upon the High Elf crew.

Needless to say, it was a short fight, and a brutal one. The crewmen fought valiantly but were simply slain, their blades useless against the infernal steel of the templars.

'Engage! For our lord Cerandar!' The silver helms crashed into the retainers like a white wave upon a blasted shore. The combat was thick and fast, horses entangled with fur cloaks and axes alike. Lances tore through men's bodies, but the servants of the Black Wolf stood firm. With their master galloping at breakneck speed through the woods, they knew it was their duty to hold their ground. Soon Vorak and the chaos cavalry would outflank the elf riders and destroy them.

'Who will face me?' Vorak roared, as the black knights poured from the forested hills. The silver helm captain, aware that his squadron was in danger, turned in the saddle to see a group of mounted knights charging towards his position. Daemonic-looking steeds with breath of fire churned the soil beneath their iron-shod hooves; templars of hell armed with flaming lances bellowed their war cries. In the templars' midst rode a giant warrior, a blood-weeping axe gripped in his gauntlet. Doom was upon them, but this was a chance for glory.

'I accept,' the captain replied, raising his silver-bladed sword in response. 'A duel!'

'Then come and die!'

As combat raged in the swirl of combatants, dark knight met noble captain.

Charging through the ranks of the fighting warriors, they sped forwards atop their diverse steeds like mounted gods, war cries on their lips. The nightmare beast and the angelic creature, both felt the elation of single combat, the surge of battle splendour.

The duel lasted a burst of sparks as elf and man clashed. Then the elf's head was separated from his shoulders with a splash of blood. Axe raised, Vorak roared his praise to the Black Wolf, and his fiendish mount reared up on hind legs. It was another victory to Chaos.

Cerandar cursed the gods. The winds of magic were not with him today, the followers of the Blood God, Lord of Skulls, for that was the true incarnation of the Black Wolf, had dissipated the magic he needed. Finally, he succeeded in battering aside the defences of Khorne. Unleashing a bolt of Khaine, he watched with satisfaction as an enemy warrior was engulfed in white flames. But his pleasure was short lived. All across the field his troops were dying.

Uryllion, apprentice and son of Cerandar, cast another Fury of Khaine spell against the loathsome retainers of the templars. He was having marginal success, perhaps more so than his father. He recognised the energies required to cast the High spells, grasped the incantations and was fast becoming a competent mage. But the anti-magic of Khorne was frustrating him. Yet he understood, for the High Magic was the most potent in the world. To let it succeed was to invite disaster for an enemy general. This Vorak was cunning. Suddenly a bestial roar burst through his thoughts, interrupting his spellcasting. A huge, muscled monster, rusting chains flailing from its hairy arms, smashed into way into the clearing through a copse of trees. His eyes wide with horror, Uryllion took flight, skirting the beast as it loped past. Truly the creatures of chaos were terrifying.

The field stank of blood, and death. As a red sun sank below the horizon, Cerandar shook his head in despair. From his perch in a tree, he watched as the piles of headless corpses grew. The skulls, mounted on stakes were being rammed into the ground, like a fence of the dead. Blood was pouring into huge clay urns, draining the bodies. It was terrible to behold.

Mountains of Skulls and Oceans of Blood, these are what Khorne demands.

Vorak and his elite cavalry sat atop their steeds, motionless, lording over the proceedings. Around the glade stood the silent ranks of the templar infantry and the retainers. Again the elves had lost the battle, and this time it was worse. Cerandar swallowed. He had taken a great risk, and it was a gamble he had lost. Prince Elreth would be angry. He would return to the Tor Karandell encampment to find half his army gone. And it would not be coming back. Cerandar considered exile. He could atone for his mistakes.

'Uryllion, come, we must fly. If they see us, we are surely dead.'

Hanging their heads in misery, the two surviving elves fled towards the river and life.

VENGEANCE LEADS TO DISHONOUR

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	7. Midnight Hour

THE NEMESIS CROWNHIGH ELVES VS VAMPIRE COUNTS

MIDNIGHT HOUR

The Warhost of Tor Karandell has suffered a great setback with the defeat of Cerandar's contingent by the Black Wolf Templars. Prince Elreth, outraged at the mage's losses, has given Cerandar and his son, Uryllion, one chance to redeem themselves of their dishonour. Tracking the dragon's egg to the Tower of Midnight, Cerandar and his contingent must retrieve the egg from Lord Moldovia and his undead hosts. The alternative is exile…

SCENARIO STATISTICS

**Points:**

1000

**Participants:**

High Elves

(Pat Quinnell)

Lahmian Vampire Counts

(Ben Smith)

**Scenario:**

Pitched Battle

**Location:**

Outside the Tower of Midnight

**Timeline: **2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

**High Elves:**

The Warhost of Tor Karandell

**General:**

Cerandar

**Lahmian Vampire Counts:**

The Minions of Midnight

**General:**

Lord Moldovia

THE STORY SO FAR…

Again Cerandar and his elven warriors have been soundly beaten by the Black Wolf Templars led by Vorak. Upon returning to the High Elf encampment, the mage and his son were met by Prince Elreth, general of the Warhost of Tor Karandell. The prince was outraged that such a failure could occur, and only one thing now stands between Cerandar and complete dishonour resulting in a discharge from the army and exile. The dragon's egg has been found to lie deep in the Tower of Midnight, a bastion of black stone controlled by the Necromancer, Lord Moldovia. If Cerandar can defeat the undead hordes and retrieve the dragon's egg, he will stand favoured once more in Elreth's eyes. But if he fails, and the undead host destroys the High Elf army, the mage can expect nothing but a quick discharge from the Warhost of Tor Karandell followed by self-imposed exile. The battle will be tense indeed…

TURN 1

Lord Moldovia stood on the parapet of his tower, gazing down across his windswept lands. The rotted trunks of the trees groaned and creaked, their skeletal limbs clutching at an uncaring sky. Beside him stood the vampiress, Amanda DeFlowna, her skirts shifting slightly in the cold breeze. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted the enemy army approaching below. To her keen eyes, it looked like a force of elves. Cavalry, and infantry, supported by a war machine, a bolt thrower, that's what their meagre army resembled. Easily beaten, perhaps. At last, she thought, something with blood she could actually drink without suffering any chaotic side effects.

It was time to feed.

'My lord,' she purred, 'shall I prepare the Black Knights?'

'Indeed,' Moldovia replied. 'It seems that this drake's egg I've claimed has attracted attention. We shall destroy them, and their bones shall nourish the hungry earth. And summon the Black Coach…I feel it needs a working out this time.'

'Well said, for a mere human. The blood rises.' Amanda turned tail and swept away, her hair flicking over her shoulder. The elves were weak, frail creatures. Their discipline and courage in the face of adversity was admirable, but they were about to fight a battle that would ultimately be lost. In the end they would be her prey. Given another chance to supp on blood, her strength would only increase. Soon she would be revitalised once more…

Cerandar shivered. His cloak billowed around him as the wind began howling a ghostly lament. This was no wind of magic however. It was the spirits of the damned. As the last rays of the sun were blotted from the sky, and the remnants of power faded from his mind, leaving him without the energy he needed, the first ranks of the undead emerged from the dark forest. Rank upon rank of skeletons and vile mounted wights dragged themselves inexorably towards the elf lines. Among their number the mage could see a ghostly figure, a banshee. He swallowed his fear and tried not to succumb to further shock. There, sitting side-saddle upon one of the nightmarish steeds was a luxurious, yet deadly figure. He was sure it was a vampire. A Vampiress, making it doubly dangerous. She could transfix him with a stare and then drink from his freshly exposed throat. He would have to use extreme caution.

There was the rumble of wheels and a huge, black coach materialised from the woods. It was drawn by nightmares: skeletal steeds draped with rotting flesh and rags. But they were nothing compared to the horror that sat atop the driver's seat. Without face or features, it was a black space visible only because of the hooded, black cloak it wore. From its otherwise empty sleeves protruded two skeletal arms wielding a double-handed scythe.

It was a wraith, a likeness to death itself.

'Fire! Eliminate the coach!' Came the command. The bolt flew directly towards the hellish carriage, but quickly clattered from the vehicle's wooden side. Cerandar grimaced. It would take more than missiles then to get rid of this deathly fiend.

Suddenly there came a burst of power from amongst the ranks of the damned. Someone was casting magic…quickly, Cerandar concentrated and, using all his mental force and will, tried to wrest that power away and take it for his own spellcasting. It was a struggle, a darkness battled against him, but he won, and without hesitation, unleashed the Fury of Khaine against the coach.

The blast scored a dent in the black coach's panels, nothing more. Cerandar cursed. Neither missiles nor magic – what was it going to take to destroy this thing?

TURN 2

The Silver Helms continued to advance across the field, their lances levelled, ready for the charge. The spearelves, too, advanced, wary and yet terrified of the corpses that marched against them. Cerandar gritted his teeth and opened his arms wide, gathering in power. The winds of magic responded this time and he uttered the words to his spell. He had to succeed. If this day was lost his house would be shamed for many years.

Thankfully, the Fury of Khaine struck the coach and damaged it. Wood splintered, rocking the carriage. Cerandar smiled. At least he could cause some damage. The Eagle's Claw fired again, and the mage's smile faded as another bolt ricocheted from the door. This was surely a sturdy construct.

With an ear-piercing screech like the screaming of a choir of damned souls, the wraith steered the monstrous black coach into the spearelves' midst. Elves were trampled beneath skeletal hooves and the wraith's great scythe arced down, slicing a warrior in two. In return the elf commander leading the spearelves hacked out, but his blows glanced off the carriage sides, and the stabbing spears went straight through the horses' bodies, causing no damage. With a ghostly screech that forced commander and troops alike to clap gauntlets to ears, a black aura of darkness began to surround the coach. It swelled and billowed like a blanket, before being sucked into the carriage itself. It was as if the thing was revitalising itself from the bodies of the slain.

TURN 3

'Charge! Victory for Tor Karandell!'

With the thunder of silver-shod hooves, the silver helm knights crashed into the skeletal ranks. Their lance tips sliced through rib cages and shattered limbs, but alas! The bodies of the damned simply got up again and continued their relentless assault. Their rusted swords and mouldering axes clashed on the elven armour, causing no damage and yet they battled on.

The battle with the black coach dragged on, neither elf spear warrior nor commander causing any lasting damage against the carriage of evil. Looming like a shadow, the wraith struck out with his scythe, decapitating a single elf with one blow. The helmeted head bounced upon the hard ground, leaving a patch of blood that soaked into the earth.

Uryllion spied the undead knights and tried to use his powers. Some evil force deflected his magic, preventing him from damaging his targets. Looking to his father, he frowned.

Cerandar called upon his gods and howled to the winds of magic. This time they answered him with power, and he could feel the energy rushing through his veins. Swollen with it, his eyes flashing white, he unleashed the Fury of Khaine towards the cantering Black Knights led by the Vampiress. No less than three of the mounted wight warriors were felled.

'Now that's how it's done, child.'

Amanda snarled, her canines protruding from her mouth, yet not defacing her beauty. Beside her the remaining knights rumbled forwards, their eyes glinting with eerie light.

'Cowardly mage,' she spat as Cerandar fled in terror, his robes whipping about him.

Selene, the ethereal banshee, issued her infernal scream and swept towards the Eagle's Claw. One of the crew, clutching his bleeding ears, fell. The other fled, but was slain quickly as the ghostly figure closed with him and wrenched his soul from his body.

'Why cannot I use the power?' Lord Moldovia roared as his spellcasting attempts failed. 'I curse thee, High Elves of Karandell!'

'Retreat!' The silver helms spurred their elven steeds to turn and flee. Two of their number had been pulled down and gutted, and only a single skeleton had returned to the grave. It was a heavy loss. As the flower of the elven cavalry fled, the damned marched on.

TURN 4

Uryllion gritted his teeth and pulled his pulled his hair in frustration. Why were his spells not working? He had learnt well, practiced under the tutelage of his father, and yet the winds were against him. Damn these foul undead hordes, he thought. Even as the Flames of the Phoenix crackled at his fingertips, the spell died and was annulled.

In stark contrast, Cerandar praised Lileath, goddess of Magic as the Fury of Khaine once again blasted the dark knights. A single rider crumbled to dust, the armour of ages ago falling amidst a pile of mouldering horse bones. The mage was having a little success, at least, even if his apprentice was not.

Moldovia ducked into the cover of the woods. Here he could dodge the elven magic that was being so devastating to the knights. He would have his share of the glory, and soon the elves would die. And be inducted into his army of undeath. He smiled at the thought.

The wraith lashed out, killing all it touched. Two more warriors fell to its unholy blade, their flesh withering and dying, their armour rusting over. The skeletal nightmares reared and trampled another, but the stoic elves refused to flee, even in the face of such terror.

TURN 5

'My lord Cerandar!' The captain of the silver helms led his knights towards the mage. 'We must retreat! The undead are too strong!'

'There will be no retreat,' Cerandar hissed. 'Not yet; we must ensure the dragon's egg is secured.'

'But this is madness! There are too many!' The captain pointed at the advancing skeletons.

'Enough!' Cerandar's eyes grew harsh. 'We continue the battle. The winds might change yet.'

And change they did, at least a little towards Uryllion's favour. Closing his eyes, he reached out to the winds of magic. Putting himself at risk, he opened himself up to them. Automatically he could sense the chaotic energies swirling and eddying. The power was there…all he had to do was grasp it and take it, mould it to his will and unleash it.

It was time for him to become a true mage.

Suddenly, a ghostly figure floated towards him. He could see it clearly with his mage sight, a deathly white shape clad in scanty rags and with hair blowing out like ripped cloth. It was the banshee. Now, his mind told him, unleash your spell, destroy the undead thing! The energy was there…for the taking.

With a snarl, Uryllion opened his eyes to see Lady Selene approaching. It was his turn.

'Praise be to Khaine!' He roared, and the magic was released. In a flash of bright power, the banshee was extinguished, her piercing shriek echoing on the winds of magic.

'You will feel the wrath of the Lahmian!' Amanda screamed as she galloped into the midst of the spearelves alongside her Hell Knight, the last remaining of her wight bodyguards.

'We'll see about that, undead witch!' The commander replied, turning to face her from the ground. As the swirl of battle continued to rage around the black coach, the two duellists faced against each other. The commander twirled his sword and clashed with the vampiress' staff. Sparks flew as elf and vampire circled, looking for an opening. Around them elves died beneath flashing scythe and trampling undead hooves. The Hell Knight's blade hacked down another, but still the elves stood firm while their commander lived. Amanda shrieked and feinted left. As the commander rose his sword to parry, she swung the staff around. Its ornate head smacked into the elf's face, drawing blood. He staggered back, dazed, and before he could do anything, Amada was upon him. She leapt from her steed, and wrenched the blade from his hands, discarding it like a broken toy. He fought back, but with superhuman strength she grasped his upper arms and ripped them back, breaking both. A pained gasp escaped from the elf's lips before the vampiress drew back her hand and smashed him across the face. His head snapped back, exposing his throat. Without further hesitation, she leaned forward and drank deep.

It was time to feed…

Around the pair the battle raged, elves falling to the undead horrors. Black energy twirled and whisked around the combatants, filling the air with darkness. Already night had fallen, and the shadows of true night had emerged. Eyes glowed; spirits whispered their hatred of the living and ghastly wails split the atmosphere of battle din.

TURN 6

Amanda DeFlowna threw back her head and howled her victory to the black skies. Fresh blood splashed from her jaws, her fangs wet in the moonlight. It ran down her face and neck. She felt revitalised, strengthened, intoxicated. She felt alive, as alive could be for a creature of the night. Her eyes glowing, she looked down at the fallen elf commander.

'Now rise, weakling, and serve your true master, Amanda DeFlowna!'

Raising her hand, palm downwards and fingers spread, she uttered words of power. There was a tremor in the air, a shimmering as if reality had shifted ever so slightly. Slowly, the elf's glazed eyes returned to life. But it was a greenish witchlight that gleamed within, not the bright defiance that had once been there. Dragging itself upright, the corpse reached for its sword. Amanda smiled a sweet smile. Her new thrall had answered the summoning.

'Cerandar, my lord! We must retreat! There is no choice now!' The silver helm captain shouted at his commander. His horse jolted and shifted, eager to flee this place of death.

'No! The winds are weak, but we cannot lose this chance!' Cerandar glanced left and right, at the gathering hordes of undeath. Perhaps the captain was right. More and more skeletons were clawing their way up from the cold earth, eager to get at the living. The elves' numbers had diminished, only to swell the ranks of the damned. With one last horrified glance at the mages, the silver helm captain ordered his men to retreat. Confused, the mage shook his head but the cavalry did not look back. They disappeared into the trees.

Back to back, Cerandar and Uryllion readied their minds for the spells they would need to cast to save their own lives. They watched in horror as the last of the spears were overwhelmed beneath a tide of skeletal death and the black coach thundered towards the small hillock they were standing on. The vampiress and her last Black Knight, the Hell Knight, galloped in their direction. Her face was wet with blood. The blood of his kin. Fangs extended, she resembled some she-daemon from the nether hells. And still, she was perfection.

They were surrounded. There was no escape. Their mission had failed.

And then, to confirm their fate, a black cloud materialized above the forest. It moved, like an amorphous shadow, towards the coach. Suddenly, it was drawn into it, sucked in by some unseen force. What little damage the carriage had taken disappeared as the mysterious terror absorbed the cloud and seemed to swell in its dark majesty.

Cerandar swallowed, and raised his staff. Behind him he heard Uryllion gasp.

They were doomed…

The silver helm captain chanced a single glance back towards where the mages had been standing. Partially hidden by trees, flashes of magic lit up their position. He could hear the elves' voices, chanting words in the Eltharin mage tongue. Then, suddenly, there was silence. The last he saw was a giant, black bat rising above the forest, its eyes glinting. It made a circuit of the Tower of Midnight and then looked in his direction. Urging his steed onwards, he galloped away to report their failure to Prince Elthas…

THE LAHMIAN FEEDS WELL TONIGHT

http://nemesis.au. 


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